


the thing about caring

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Minor Injuries, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Wanda Maximoff, Protective Wanda Maximoff, Sharing a Bed, but she also sucks at taking care of herself, even tho natasha's a badass who doesn't need it, natasha's a smooth mf, super brief tho, they're soft, wanda is a helpless gay disaster, which we love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: "It’s always Natasha whom she checks on first in every mission to ensure she’s safe [...]; it’s like she’s been instilled with an uncontrollableneeddeep in her bones, an instinctual and unrelenting urge to protect her, to do everything she can to stop her from being hurt even when she knows Natasha is likely the last person to ever be in need of such a thing."Or: Wanda worries about Natasha. (A lot.) Natasha allows it. (Sort of.) It's cute.





	the thing about caring

**Author's Note:**

> needed a bit of a brain break from my other stories... so wrote this drabble thing
> 
> hope you like:)

Sometimes, it was hard for Wanda to look into people’s minds—the pain she'd see, the trauma… it was… unsettling, to say the least. 

 

So it was hard, but never _unbearable_ …. not until _her_. Not until Natasha. 

 

That night in the shipyard, when she’d incapacitated nearly all of the Avengers one by one, she’d very nearly lost control entirely when she got to Natasha, when she’d entered the twisted web of falsehoods and blood-stained memory in the assassin’s head.

 

(Which, she’s very thankful she hadn’t, because her powers were volatile enough on their own, and she’s sure she’d have blown herself and the lot of them into space had things gone differently.) 

 

And later, when she awoke in the darkness with a blinding headache from the Archer’s electric arrow, she was… well, it’s difficult to explain. 

 

She thinks the best explanation she can conjure up is that she felt… _lost_. 

 

Lost, like a stranger in her own skin, perpetually on edge, a shrunken and terrified child forced to play with horrible things in a young woman’s body—she didn’t sleep for two days afterwards. 

 

With every mind she enters, it changes something within her, rearranges the very particles of her being in some entirely inexplicable way—that much is inevitable. 

 

Sometimes it’s comforting; sometimes it isn’t. 

 

Either way, she learns things, and she’s different for it. Better. 

 

But Natasha… that’s a separate matter entirely— _she’s_ a separate matter entirely; she always has been, and not only because Wanda has been helplessly attracted to the devastatingly gorgeous and insanely capable older woman from the very start. 

 

Now, Wanda feels… haunted, somehow. Afraid. 

 

She was afraid before, of course, because there’s much to be afraid of in this unforgiving world, and from the very beginning, it was quick to ensure that she knew that. 

 

But this fear… it’s different. 

 

It’s _worse_.

 

She’s afraid of things she didn’t even know she could be afraid of, things she didn’t even think about as reasonable possibilities for pain, for killing, for _unmaking_.

 

It’s horrific.

 

And on top of all that, she knows she’d only seen a glimpse in that shipyard, had just scratched the impenetrable surface of Natasha Romanoff, of everything she was and everything she’s become, and it makes her physically _sick_ sometimes to think about the rest of it, the countless possibilities, the various unspeakable things she’ll never be able to conceptualize—because she’s known pain, of course, but not like that. _Never_ like that. 

 

Perhaps the most foolish piece of it all, though, is almost certainly the overwhelming sense of protectiveness she feels for Natasha now, even when she knows the woman could easily kill her at any given moment without batting an eyelid. 

 

She knows Natasha is strong, perhaps the strongest person she’ll ever meet, both physically and psychologically—Wanda should be scared of her, she knows; _terrified_.

 

And somehow, she’s not; she never has been. 

 

It’s always Natasha whom she checks on first in every mission to ensure she’s safe, whom she checks on a hell of a lot more often than she does Steve or Sam or Bucky—it’s like she’s been instilled with an uncontrollable _need_ deep in her bones, an instinctual and unrelenting urge to protect her, to do everything she can to stop her from being hurt even when she knows Natasha is likely the last person to ever be in need of such a thing. 

 

She can’t help it. 

 

A day later, Natasha confronts her about it. 

 

“That was stupid,” she remarks from the doorway as Wanda sits upon a black leather couch in the common area cleaning a deep gash on her right thigh with a vodka-soaked towel (Steve hated it as a method for disinfecting, but Natasha swore by it—so predictably, Wanda had since adopted the practice as well). 

 

Wanda looks up in surprise, not having heard the redhead enter—she never does. 

 

(The perks of being an ex-assassin, she supposes.)

 

“I suppose I still have much to learn,” Wanda replies, purposefully avoiding the obvious meaning underlying Natasha’s words. 

 

(They’d been fighting a horde of robot AI’s, one man’s poor imitation of Ultron and his armies—they were outnumbered at least 5:1, the aforementioned robots were surprisingly adept at hand-to-hand combat, and to make matters worse, there were various men up in the surrounding trees armed with semi-automatic machine guns attempting to pick them off from above. 

 

But still, they were managing—after all, they’d certainly faced up against worse odds and come out as victors in the end.

 

But at a certain point, when Wanda allowed herself a brief moment to check on Natasha who held her position just 50 yards or so away, she caught sight of a man in the trees taking aim at her unsuspecting figure, his finger just milliseconds away from pulling the trigger. 

 

Ignoring the multitude of robots around her as the man fired his weapon, she immediately focused on catching every single bullet just feet away from where Natasha stood, earning a painful slice to her thigh for her troubles by a particularly violent AI whilst she was distracted.

 

Natasha had turned to glare at her when she’d let out an involuntary cry of pain, green eyes flashing with a look that practically screamed _‘We’re going to talk about this later,’_ perfectly clear to Wanda even with the substantial distance between them on the battlefield before promptly continuing to incapacitate three bots with a single aerodynamic move.

 

She doesn’t regret it—perhaps she should, but she knows damn well she’d go back and do the same thing all over again if given the chance.) 

 

Natasha’s mouth twitches as she approaches, wordlessly taking the damp dish towel from Wanda and sitting beside her upon the couch. 

 

“You can’t be distracted like that. Not out there. Not when it’s life or death,” she says gently, though her words are firm while she dabs methodically at the angry red cut running diagonally along Wanda’s upper thigh. 

 

Wanda winces at the feel of disinfectant on her wound. “It was not being distracted,” she protests, gaze darting up to meet Natasha’s calculating green irises. “He was going to kill you.”

 

Natasha’s lips quirk upwards almost imperceptibly, forming something like a smile. “I’ve been living off borrowed time for a while now, Wanda.”

 

“No,” Wanda blurts out petulantly, cheeks instantly flushing as Natasha quirks a single brow at her. “You—You are too… too casual about your own safety.”

 

“Callous.”

 

“What?” 

 

Natasha smirks. “Callous, you mean.”

 

Wanda resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, that. You don’t… Why? Why do you not value your own life?”

 

Natasha narrows her gaze. “I do value my life to a certain degree, but only what’s reasonable. I’m an asset, but my importance is by no means all-encompassing. In some cases, I’d agree it would have been prudent to save my life. This wasn’t one of them.”

 

“That is not reasonable. You are more than that, more than an ‘asset.’"

 

“I assure you,” Natasha counters with a chuckle, “it’s the very definition of reasonable.”

 

“It is not.”

 

Natasha tilts her head then, the smirk fading ever-so-slightly from her lips. “Why do you care?”

 

“You are… " Wanda trails off, the rosy tinge returning to her cheeks. “You are important to me, Natasha. You… You deserve more than you think you do.”

 

“I’m glad you think so,” the woman says simply, though there’s something like sincerity sparkling in her eyes—after a fleeting second, it’s gone without a trace.

 

“I am not wrong about that."

 

Natasha shrugs. “I never said you were.”

 

“You implied it.”

 

Natasha hums, eyeing Wanda up and down. “You’re very adamant about this.”

 

“I want you to be safe,” Wanda states, ignoring the deepening flush in her cheeks.

 

Natasha’s lips quirk upwards again. “I don’t need your protection.”

 

Wanda nods. “I know. But you have it.”

 

They’re silent for a brief moment, something undoubtedly charged in the air between them. 

 

“Don’t do anything dumb like this again,” Natasha emphasizes after a spell. 

 

Wanda just shrugs noncommittally—then, with a bemused smirk Natasha stands as if to leave, and fear pulses deep in Wanda’s chest at the prospect of not having Natasha here with her, at not knowing she’s _safe_. 

 

“Natasha?” she asks before she can stop herself, knowing the desperation she feels must be written all over her face but uncaring, because she _needs_ this, needs it like she needs air to breathe or her eyes to see. 

 

Natasha meets her gaze. “Hm?”

 

“Will you sit with me? For a little while?”

 

“Sure,” Natasha replies without hesitation, her gaze softening as she moves carefully to sink back into the cushions—it does something curious to Wanda, her heart beginning to beat erratically in her chest. “Wanna watch a movie?”

 

Wanda nods distractedly, simply grateful above all else that Natasha is _here_ , that she’s safe, that Wanda can protect her now that they’re together. “I would like that.”

 

— — 

 

It’s Tuesday, they’ve just finished a week-long mission, and Wanda is _angry_.

 

Her bad mood only worsens when she storms down to medical to give Natasha a piece of her mind, and, of course, she’s not there—according to the doctors, she’d never visited them once in the past two years she’d been living at Avengers Tower, not even for the yearly S.H.I.E.L.D.-mandated physicals.

 

Figures. 

 

She doesn’t bother to change out of her soot-covered jacket or ripped leather pants, just hightails it to Natasha’s quarters with a steam pouring out of her ears—along the way, a battle-weary but ever-sunny Steve greets her with a “Hey, Wanda!”; she fastidiously ignores the excitable man she’s grown to care for, silently fuming with every step that brings her closer to Natasha, that self-sacrificing _idiot_.

 

(Luckily, Steve doesn’t come after her.)

 

She’s only just bursting through Natasha’s door before she’s ranting, her voice dramatically raised in pitch and unquestionably _furious_ : “What exactly is wrong with you? You told me you valued your life. That? That is—That is _not_ valuing your own life. And _then_ , you refuse to go to medical. Why? Why do you not care if you live or die? Because the rest of us do; _I_ do. A lot, actually!”

 

More or less satisfied with her words, she finally turns to glare angrily at the woman in question, who just tilts her head calmly at Wanda and—Shit. 

 

She’s wearing— _Shit_. 

 

Wanda really should have knocked—Natasha is currently topless, her sinfully tight combat suit pulled down to her waist, miles and miles of creamy pale skin on display (though it’s marred by a great deal of cuts and bruises), and of course, because all that wasn’t doing a sufficient enough job of rendering Wanda’s brain entirely useless and incapable of functioning properly, she’s not wearing a bra. 

 

_Shit_. 

 

Wanda really, _really_ should have knocked. 

 

“You’re angry,” Natasha observes after a brief moment of tense silence as she leans slightly back in place atop the bed, not making a single move to cover herself from Wanda’s stunned gaze. 

 

Wanda swallows thickly, employing a great deal of effort into focusing her gaze on Natasha’s face and not her… exposed body; clenching her jaw tightly, she then attempts to regain some of her fury from earlier rather than gawking so uselessly at the woman. 

 

“Yes, I am angry,” she manages through gritted teeth. 

 

Natasha lifts a single brow. “You don’t agree with the way I handled my part of the mission?”

 

A flare of anger rips through Wanda’s chest at Natasha’s infuriating nonchalance. “You let yourself be _tortured!_ "

 

Natasha nods. “And through that, I obtained valuable information on the whereabouts of his lesser associates.”

 

“That was not a part of the mission.”

 

Something like steely resolve flashes in Natasha’s evergreen eyes. “I think the women in the Middle East currently being forced into sexual slavery would disagree.”

 

Wanda blinks, some of her anger fading in her confusion. “What does that have to do with it?”

 

Natasha shrugs. “Now we have the means to free them.”

 

Wanda is silent for a long moment. 

 

“You let them carve things into you, waterboard you—You—They—They _touched_ you.” Wanda’s voice trembles more violently with every word. 

 

“They never got further than that,” Natasha points out, her tone even. 

 

Wanda doesn’t respond, just seethes silently, and it’s quiet for a long while—Wanda standing broken and angry and _broken_ before her, Natasha simply eyeing her with a thoughtful gaze. 

 

Eventually, Natasha breaks the silence. “Would you like to sleep here tonight?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Natasha’s lips quirk, and Wanda’s heart flutters. “This bed is more than big enough for the both of us.”

 

(At this point, Wanda is certain Natasha knows—knows about Wanda’s feelings, about how deeply she cares for Natasha, about her irrational urge to watch over and protect her through everything.

 

Wanda doesn’t know what to make of the fact that she seems to be allowing it—humoring it, even.) 

 

“A-Are you sure?”

 

Natasha smirks. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

 

At that, Wanda smiles, shy and small. “I would like that.”

 

— — 

 

After that night, it becomes something of an unspoken agreement—after missions, especially the bad ones, Wanda sleeps in Natasha’s quarters. 

 

Natasha herself never sleeps for long, but when Wanda wakes in the middle of the night to a cold bed and the feeling of panic seeping into her very bones, Natasha doesn’t leave the room, either. 

 

She just sits upon the floor, sometimes reading, sometimes staring off into the distance, sometimes just _watching_ , watching Wanda as she wakes. 

 

(Wanda knows that Natasha’s purposeful with allowing Wanda to catch her staring, because there is nothing Natasha ever does that is not meticulously premeditated and examined; it makes her feel warm and content and _safe_ to know Natasha trusts her with that.)

 

— — 

 

Natasha kisses her on a Friday—it’s soft but firm, unexpected but most certainly not unwelcome, and above all, it’s simply _exquisite_ ; far better than anything Wanda had ever allowed herself to imagine. 

 

It happens at 5:01am; Wanda wakes to Natasha sitting cross-legged beside her in bed, green eyes watching her with a curious and unreadable intent in the faint unobtrusive light of the barely-risen sun.

 

Neither of them say a word for a long moment, until Natasha is leaning forward to capture Wanda’s lips in a gentle kiss, and Wanda inevitably endures a brief internal freakout before enthusiastically responding in kind, reveling in the feel of Natasha’s fingers stroking softly at the skin beneath her jaw. 

 

“I like you,” Wanda says stupidly after they part, a blush tinging her features as Natasha chuckles, her hand still caressing Wanda’s cheek. 

 

“I gathered as much,” she replies, low and husky and _God_ , the sound has a familiar sort of warmth settling itself lower and lower in Wanda’s gut. “You should get up. We have to meet Steve down by the Quinjet at six.”

 

Wanda groans. _Another mission_. Then she's cracking open her eyelids again, narrowing her gaze suspiciously at a smirking Natasha. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

 

Natasha lets out another chuckle at that, before leaning back down to press her full red lips once more against Wanda’s, the action succeeding in bringing what was left of Wanda’s brain function to a decisive halt. 

 

After a moment, Natasha pulls back, still smirking. “I’m always careful,” she teases. 

 

Wanda glares—well, as best as she can manage at such an obscenely early hour. “No, you’re not,” she grumbles.

 

Natasha just winks, then turns promptly to stand beside the bed, stripping herself of her red tank top to reveal full round breasts topped with dusty pink nipples and the devastating curves of her waist and back, completely unashamed by her nudity as she waltzes around the room retrieving her combat suit and gear—Wanda, for her part, simply gapes, frozen in place with comically wide eyes because Holy _shit_.

 

“Take a picture,” Natasha quips as she unceremoniously drops her pajama shorts and panties, thereby prompting Wanda’s gawking to increase tenfold. “It’ll last longer.” 

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> would love any feedback:)
> 
> also here’s the link to my 


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